I see the birds dancing above me,
Sitting on the park bench,
If there is nothing poetic about being happy,
Why do we write love poems?
With elaborate descriptions of
How we hold hands,
The way we sing our hearts out while travelling,
And how we argue when we're both hungry.
Why do people make songs,?
That talk about how it's all colourful in love,
And everything is lucky all along,
Spilling secrets of eyes being the windows of love,
And the way skin shines when the other one smiles.
I am sitting on this bench,
Boggling with a single thought I had,
When all my words suddenly seem to have found a way,
To oppose my above ideas -
Right after I remember your favourite song.
Now I can't stop but only
Write about love.
we could hear better
if we just chose to listen
without any condition.
if I could shape shift
you’d find me living inside you
as a bird’s eye chilli
my sting’ll stick to your gum
a ticklish snap dragon
I’ll tangle your tresses
sprouting in unwanted
hairs on your armpit
buzz of a bee in
auditory canals of conscience
itching the throat
after the last cigarette
the unfazed spice
of impressionable skin
is home even now
so good luck
with finding me
another one then
I do not want to write today,
Because today, a clear head and a messy diary seem very elusive,
Today, I want to cache all the metaphors and images;
I want stock up on all my feelings and make a chain out of them,
I want to collect all my beliefs and build a bench or a barrier,
I want to hoard my opinions like a child hoards her chocolates,
I will not give all of this away.
Even to my poetry.
I will not cave to the constany need to convey or to convince,
I do not want etch my poems with my unwillingness to cathart.
So today my mind will shelter chaos,
It will embrace conflict,
It will try not to shirk or shatter.
My mind isn't ready,
Maybe, it doesn't want to let go of what is left of the routine of venting.
Maybe, it doesnt want to forego a 'what if'
it just wants to know better.
We would have never scarred each other's soul
if we ever felt complete within ourselves.
My parents' mouths
spew endless ideas
for my future - which
country to finish my
education in, the things
I could study, the jobs
I could get, the people
I could be… For now,
all these possibilities
seem alien. In this
moment, I am still
learning what means
to be me, to dream
my dreams. The
weight of all these
ifs is dragging me
away from all
the places it is
supposed to take me.
David Hockney sits alone in his Normandy home,
Watching winter turn to spring.
Ruby, his dog, naps in the sun,
As the octogenarian toils away,
A pack of Camel cigarettes close by,
In isolation with nature.
Amidst the elderflower blooms,
The chirping of the starlings,
Odes to spring manifest
In vivid technicolour.
If we could enter paintings
Like I do in my dreams
I’d have liked to go on a walk with you.